


Peace of Mind

by dashwood



Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Liz's version of Cape May, Reddington looks after Agnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-19
Updated: 2017-11-19
Packaged: 2019-02-04 09:18:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12767844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dashwood/pseuds/dashwood
Summary: Liz's version of Cape May.She wishes she could have been there for it all. The first smile, the first words, the first steps. To soothe nightmares, to kiss bruised knees, to sing her to sleep. To check the closet for monsters, to brush her hair in the mornings. To teach her what it means to be part of a family who loves her unconditionally. Now and forever.





	Peace of Mind

**Author's Note:**

> A quick one-shot to explore Liz's struggles after waking up. Little to no mention of Tom; it's mostly about Agnes.

“Elizabeth, wait.” 

She stops dead in her tracks and throws one last, longing look at the backseat of the cab before slowly turning around to face him. Red has moved away though, just a few steps, and Liz watches as he hands Agnes off to Dembe. For a brief moment, she can’t bring herself to tear her eyes away from the sight unfolding in front of her: Red beaming at Agnes, brightly, lovingly, as his fingers reach out to tickle her cheek until a startled giggle bubbles past her pursed lips.  

She looks so happy, Liz thinks. So carefree and completely at ease around these two men. So unlike the weary frown that appears on her face whenever Liz attempts to get close to her. Seeing her own daughter look at her as if she were a stranger never fails to break her heart.  

“Elizabeth.” Red says again, closer this time, and Liz jumps as she realizes that he had moved closer while she’d been wallowing in self-pity. Her eyes fly back to his face to take in the worried crease between his eyebrows, the way he chews on the inside of his cheek in thought. 

“Would you call from time to time? To let us know if there is anything you need?” 

_To let us know that you’re alright_. 

She readily agrees. Right now, she’d promise him anything if it only meant that he’d let her leave already. There’s a nervous current thrumming through her veins. It’s simply too much, and if she has to stay still for even a moment longer, Liz fears that the vicious thoughts and cruel nightmares will catch up to her. She needs to move  _now_ , needs to get away from it all, lest it swallows her whole. 

“Thank you.”  

Red gives her a smile - honest and open, his eyes positively shining with hope. As if the prospect of talking to her is something that keeps him moving, the last thing on his mind before falling asleep in the evening, the reason why he gets up in the morning,  _I’ll talk to Elizabeth soon_.  

She doesn’t want to linger on it though, doesn’t want to keep her hopes up. Instead, she gives him a court nod and turns back to the cab. She’s afraid that she’ll do something stupid if she stays even a second longer. Like filling the tense silence that stretches between them like a gaping ocean with a meaningless gesture - a handshake or a hug. Or even worse: the truth spilling fast from her lips, escaping her before she can catch them with her tongue and shove them back inside, locking them up in the darkest cavern of her heart.  

_I’m sorry for failing Agnes. I’m so sorry._  

When the door of the car closes behind her, Liz lets out the breath she had been holding, her shoulders sagging in relief.  

   
 

\-- 

   
 

Finally, Liz thinks as she looks around the empty cabin. Solitude at last - the quiet she so desperately needs to confront the voices in her head, the anguished screams of guilt and regret. The jumbled mess of emotions boiling up inside of her.  

For the first time since she woke up, it feels like she is able to breathe freely. As if she weren’t treading on pointed shards of broken glass with every step she took. Always afraid of getting it wrong, of making things even worse. 

Swinging her bag onto the little bed pushed into the far corner of the room, Liz rifles through the cupboards for a clean glass and fills it up with tap water. Taking a sip, Liz moves to look out the window. The cabin is tucked away in a seemingly never-ending maze of trees, their groping branches looming and hovering. Closing in on her.  

Tearing her eyes away from the woods, Liz puts the glass - half-empty, now - aside before beginning to unpack her things.  

She hasn’t taken a lot with her, just the bare essentials. A toothbrush and mint paste, a few spare clothes. A collection of poems that Red had left on her nightstand one evening and which Liz had grabbed impulsively when she had noticed the small sheet of paper sticking out from between the pages, a drawing of a little girl holding hands with a man in a fedora. In the picture, both of them are smiling brightly, rickety red lines turning upwards in pure joy, and Liz feels horrible for wanting to crumple the paper up in her fist.  

Instead, she carefully slides the drawing back between the pages and puts the book aside. Next, she pulls out her towel, the bag with her toiletries, the - Liz’s faces scrunches up in confusion as she finds yet another book. This one is bigger though, its spine and cover clothed in an elegant leather-binding. Puzzled, Liz pulls it out and opens it to the first page - only to find a photograph of Agnes staring right back at her.  

Liz slams the book shut and throws it onto the bed before high-tailing out of the room. She’s going for a run, she decides. Maybe that will help to keep the thoughts at bay. 

   
 

\-- 

   
 

Her first night is spent sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the fireplace, her fingers wrapped around a soothing cup of chamomile tea. The tea is too hot, but Liz revels in the burning sensation as it flows over her tongue and down her throat. She likes the pain, likes how it lends her overactive imagination something to focus on. A distraction. 

With a sigh, Liz turns her head to the side and throws a look out the window. She can barely make anything out beyond the biting darkness looming outside the cabin. Nothing but the lights from within bouncing off the glass like cursed fairy lights - Liz’s shimmering reflection caught in-between.  

Turning away from her reflection staring blankly back at her like a haunted doll, Liz lets her gaze fall onto the phone lying abandoned on the table right next to her - just an arm’s length away. Hesitantly, she reaches out. She could call Red, she thinks. After all, she had promised him that she would talk to him.  _From time to time_.  

But what is there she could possibly say to him? That she is still broken? That she can’t imagine a future in which she smiles freely, without thinking of the past. That happiness seems impossibly far away nowadays, an abstract concept which she can’t quite wrap her head around, something about rays of light and joyful laughter.  

Something she fears she’ll never feel again. 

Her hand lingers on the phone for just a moment longer, the pads of her fingers tapping against the screen - once, twice - before she lets her arm fall back to her side. Limply, lifelessly. 

Tomorrow. She’ll call him tomorrow. 

   
 

\-- 

   
 

She jolts awake with a strangled scream.  

Another nightmare. Just one in a million; a variation of a theme: When Liz closes her eyes, it all comes back. Tom, battered and bruised and broken beyond repair, dying as she lives. And Agnes - little darling Agnes - her voice bittersweet even as she stares coldly ahead,  _this is all your fault_. 

It takes her a while to get her breathing back under control. In and out, in and out. Slowly - the way her therapist had taught her.  _It will take time, Elizabeth._  

Her legs are twisted in the sheets, the scratchy, unused linen clothing wringing her limbs in a bruising grasp. Liz cranes her head to look at the watch above her head. Almost 5am. She might as well get up - there is no way she’d be able to fall asleep now. 

   
 

\-- 

   
 

Her feet are pounding against dirt and broken branches as she races through the woods. All around her, the trees keep passing by in a blur of autumn colors, brown and yellow and orange. 

Red. 

The cold is harsh and unforgiving as it whips past her head, tangles in her hair and freezes her nose and the apples of her cheeks in a tinge of pink. She can feel her eyes starting to burn from the constant rush of air, but still she doesn’t reach out to wipe the tears away.  

Instead, Liz picks up her pace and pretends that she has at least a fighting chance of outrunning the demons that keep chasing her.  

   
 

\-- 

   
 

She wonders what Red and Agnes are up to. 

He had left her some messages on her voicemail. So far, she has listened to every single one of them at least a dozen times. Her favorite is the one he had left three days ago; In it, she can hear Agnes laughing in the background, happily clapping her hands and singing along to some children’s cartoon on TV. In yet another one, Red tells her about their latest trip to the museum - how Agnes had stared at the impressionist paintings with a look of awe on her face, eyes wide and hands reaching out towards the canvases.  

His latest message had let her know that she would be facing quite the argument when she came back: Apparently, Agnes had asked about a puppy and “You know I can’t deny her anything, Elizabeth”. 

Liz hasn’t replied to any of them. She’s absolutely terrified that as soon as she opens up her mouth, something vicious and cruel will come out. Bitter accusations scorched black with self-pity. Which would be unfair and far from what Red deserves. He has been so wonderful, completely perfect, really - the very best thing about this living hell she had found herself in. 

He had been so patient with Liz, too. Reading her old newspapers while she went through her exercises - mostly yoga-like stretches and contortions (sometimes, he would trail off and she’d catch him staring at her. His unwavering attention had never failed to make her blush). 

He hadn’t minded going on prolonged walks with her either. At least she had never heard him complain, even though she had been beyond frustrated with her own limitations, how she had stumbled along next to him like a newborn fawn (he had always been right there when she needed him. Ready to catch her in case she should lose her balance). 

He had done the same for Agnes. He had looked after her and given her the love Liz had been unable to offer. So it was no wonder that Agnes preferred to spend her time with him - the man who made her her favorite breakfast - mushed banana pancakes with whipped cream. Who admired her drawings as if they were a work of art worth millions of dollars, every scribbled line. The man who read her bedtime stories every single night without fail, who pressed a kiss goodnight to her forehead before promising her that her mother would wake up soon. 

(One night, she had overheard them talking in hushed voices.  

_What if she won’t wake up again?_  

_Your mother will be right there when you wake up tomorrow, Agnes. I promise_.) 

Red had been the best father a little girl could have wished for, and Liz had no right to be jealous. If anything, she should be grateful.  

It’s just that... 

She wishes she could have been there for it all. The first smile, the first words, the first steps. To soothe nightmares, to kiss bruised knees, to sing her to sleep. To check the closet for monsters, to brush her hair in the mornings. To teach her what it means to be part of a family who loves her unconditionally. Now and forever. 

(But most of all, she wishes she could blame anyone other than herself for having failed Agnes.) 

   
 

\-- 

   
 

Liz lies on her bed, staring blankly at the ceiling.  

There’s a spring poking into her back, just below her left shoulder blade, stabbing insistenly. She could just turn around, scoot over a fraction to the left, but Liz figures that this is just what she deserves.  

Today is a bad day.  

Earlier, she had spilled some tea on herself. Her stomach still burns from the scorching liquid, her skin flushed an angry red.  

She had burnt her breakfast, too. The scrambled eggs had turned a coal black while she had been busy untangling herself from her soaked shirt. It had taken an eternity to silence the shrill screeching of the fire alarm (eventually, she had just stepped on it until it gave out a sad bleep - a sound universally understood in the slow, painful deaths of electronic appliances). 

Red had left another message for her. Liz can feel her insides twist with guilt whenever she thought about it. He had sounded so lost and small, his voice a soft whisper as if he were trying not to alarm Agnes, to keep his worries to himself.  

_Please, Lizzy. Please call me._  

Screwing her eyes shut, Liz presses her face into the pillow and lets out a broken sob.  

   
 

\-- 

   
 

Her fingers are trembling when she dials his number. He answers on the first ring.  

“Elizabeth?” 

“Hey.” She says and closes her eyes as the silence stretches between them, nothing but a resounding lack of words and the occasional crackling of the line.  

She should have thought of something to say, she realizes belatedly. But then again, she doesn’t even know why she called him in the first place. To let him know that she’s alright? That he needn’t worry about her jumping off a cliff or walking into the fickle sea (like mother, like daughter. A family curse).  

Maybe she had simply wanted to find out if Agnes and Red are missing her. Or if their lives have become easier, less fraught since she left. Back to their usual routine, undisturbed and cheerful now that they no longer had to walk around on eggshells. 

(Liz knows this is one of the things she can never tell him, but deep down she feels as if she is slowing them down. That she has no place in Agnes’ life anymore. That she is nothing but an obstacle in this new life they had so carefully build around her sleeping body.) 

“Oh, Elizabeth. I am so glad you called.” He sounds so relieved, and Liz can feel a prick of guilt stabbing her gut. “Is everything alright?” 

No. Nothing is alright.  

She has been through hell. She’s lost her husband, along with the better part of a whole year of her life - a span of time in which her daughter has grown and become the most perfect little girl. A girl who now behaved like a stranger around her, cautious and almost weary, and with every time she shied away from her, Liz can feel her resolution crumble just a little bit more. A house of cards collapsing in on itself.  

Still, she knows that this isn’t what Red wants to hear. That is is something he can’t  _bear_  to hear, no matter how often he assures her that he will always be there for her. So she swallows the words and puts on a brave face. For him. 

“Yeah. Everything’s fine.” 

Red makes a humming sound low in his throat that lets her know that he doesn’t believe her, but that he is willing to let it go for now. She rushes on before he can say anything else. 

“Tell me about your day?” 

Tell me about  _her_ , Liz wants to say. But she is too afraid to ask. Too afraid Red will tell her that Agnes has thrived in her absence, that she has barely noticed that her mother has been gone (yet again). Selfishly, Liz wants her daughter to miss her just so she knows that she still has a place in her daughter’s life. 

“Agnes and I had a wonderful time at the playground today. We have unearthed another one of her talents - We’re considering a career as a professional slider.” 

“I don’t think there’s such a thing.” 

Red huffs and Liz doesn’t need to see him to know that right now, his face holds an expression of playful indignation.  

“Well, I’m certainly not going to be the one to tell her that. We had her whole future planned out - she was going to win her first tournament at the age of - Dembe,” There’s a faint rustling as Red turns slightly away from the phone. “Elizabeth tells me that Agnes can’t become a professional slider. We’ll have to think of something else.” 

As she listens to Red and Dembe bicker around Agnes’ future, Liz finds herself smiling against her will, her heart warming up inside her chest at the thought of seeing Agnes grow up. A professional slider, Liz thinks. Of course. 

She has no doubt that her daughter can achieve anything she sets her mind to.  

   
 

\-- 

   
 

“What does it look like?” 

“I don’t know.” With a frown, she pokes her spoon deeper into the chutney. “Orange and slimy?” 

“You should have become a poet, Lizzy.” He deadpans and it’s almost like he is right there with her, sitting at the kitchen table while she tries to make a dinner that won’t end with either of them being rushed to the hospital with food poisoning.  

But then the phone crackles - the swaying trees rustling the telephone line - and all too soon the fantasy is gone again, vanishing into nothingness only to be replaced by the cold, harsh truth. Red is miles away, devotedly looking after her daughter because she can’t bring herself to.  

Liz swallows past the sudden lump in her throat. She can feel the self-hatred rising up inside of her again, bubbling to the surface and threatening to spill over. She had best let Red get back to Agnes. Surely, it’s time for her bedtime story (there’s another pang of guilt. A better mother would know her daughter’s nighttime routine, Liz thinks).  

“Red?” She asks carefully. It takes her another moment to gather enough courage for her next words, eyes closed and hands shaking. How could something this small possibly take up so much of her strength?  

“Tell Agnes I said hi?” 

He doesn’t reply immediately, almost as if he were taken aback by her words.  

“Oh Lizzy, of course.” He says eventually, his voice strained. “She asks about you every day. You must know that she misses you.” 

Her heart clenches inside her chest. She wants to ask him if he’s lying to make her feel better but finds that the words are stuck in her throat.  

   
 

\-- 

   
 

She’s sitting cross-legged on her bed, her fingers fiddling with the hem of Red’s shirt. She had tried hard not to think too much about it - about why she had grabbed one of his shirts instead of going through the boxes filled with Tom’s things, each shirt and book and memento packed neatly away in case she wanted to hang on to them.  

(She had felt guilty about wanting to throw it all away. About wanting to destroy every single one of the keepsakes that reminded her of him. In the end, she had just pushed the cardboard boxes under her bed, hoping that the old saying proved true: Out of sight, out of mind.) 

Tonight, Liz is restless, her body thrilling with excess energy while her mind runs in endless circles. Tom and Agnes and Red, and nothing will ever be like it was before so why can’t she just move on already.  

She lets her gaze wander around the room, searching for something to distract her from the white noise inside her head. Her eyes flit over the cuckoo’s clock hanging like a tik-tocking guillotine above her head, before eventually settling on the book that Red had tucked into her bag without her noticing. A photo album filled with pictures of her baby girl, a grimoire of memories - vivid and lively.  

Swinging her legs over the edge of the bed, Liz gets up and reaches out for the book, lets her fingers trail through the fine sheen of dust that has gathered on the binding. Carefully, she flips the book open and yes, there she is. Smiling brightly - without a single worry in the world. As if the future were just a big adventure, waiting to happen.  

Liz turns to the next page, and the next, and the next. With every picture, the weight on Liz’s shoulders becomes more bearable until it passes away completely. All of a sudden, it feels as if she has been relieved of a great burden that had been pressing down on her, coating her vision in a black veil.  

In the photographs, Agnes grows up right before her eyes: Her hair grows longer and darker, her features become more pronounced until eventually, Liz is looking at the little girl who had hid behind Red’s legs when she had first come in to visit her in her makeshift hospital bed. Timid and yet so curious - braver than Liz could ever have hoped for. 

Her eyes are beginning to burn, her vision blurring with unshed tears even as a smile settles onto her lips. Her baby, Liz thinks as her fingers glide over the edges of the photographs, reverent.  

Turning another page, Liz finds her favorite picture yet. It’s the first one that shows Red, too, and Liz can feel her heart starting to glow at the sight of the two of them, fast asleep in what looks to be the most magnificent pillow fort she has ever seen.  

She can only imagine what an adventure he must have made out of building that fort. Stacking one pillow on top of the other, assorting blankets and afghans until they resembled a makeshift linen castle. Red had probably told her a fantastical tale, too. Something about dragons and knights and princesses.  

Just like Agnes’ bedtime stories. 

(Liz had cried herself to sleep the first time she had tried to take that duty over from Red. Agnes had been so sweet, so perfect as she had snuggled into her pillows, her favorite plush dragon clutched to her chest, her eyes wide and curious and far from sleepy as she had asked Liz to tell her her favorite story - the one about the sleeping princess.) 

An adventure, Liz thinks as she shuts the book. She’d give anything to be a part of that. To watch Agnes and Red build a pillow fort while she prepared a tray of snacks, sandwiches and fruit and everything else a little girl needed to become a brave knight or clever princess. Red would smile at her, proud and loving, and Liz wouldn’t be afraid this time.  

Tomorrow, she thinks, her heart picking up speed at the thought. She’ll drive back tomorrow. 

She can’t wait to see them again.  

Her second chance. 

Her family. 


End file.
